


Rotten Luck

by silentfaith



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anyone can die, Everyone Will Cry, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Yes the Machete's Name is Wade, will add more characters as they show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfaith/pseuds/silentfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye doesn't really remember what she was doing when it all went to shit. Sure, she knew that a new virus was running rampant, but hey, wasn't there always? Swine flu, Ebola - nobody in her small town got anything more than a common cold, so she decided not worry.</p><p>She should have.</p><p>One day Skye was watching the news about the first outbreak, and the next she was plunging a pair of scissors through her boyfriend's eye. Stupid Miles. Promised her he wouldn't get bit, then goes right out and does it anyway. Sometimes she misses him, sometimes she misses pizza. Grief is a day to day thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning of the End

Skye doesn't really remember what she was doing when it all went to shit. Sure, she knew that a new virus was running rampant, but hey, wasn't there always? Swine flu, Ebola - nobody in her small town got anything more than a common cold, so she decided not worry.

But then it was breaking news, the source of the virus. One day some of the recently dead just broke out of their coffins or drawers in the morgue and tried to eat people - and succeeded of course, because it's not like these people expected being viciously attacked by the dead for God's sake. And it only got worse from there.

Dead people don't have very good coordination. The walk or shamble or crawl. But those that got bit, well they were quick. Their brains still worked when the got the virus, and since the brain was the root of evil, they could move a hell of a lot faster, were a hell of a lot stronger. Big cities crumbled fast, and it made its way to small towns in the blink of an eye.

One day Skye was watching the news about the first outbreak, and the next she was plunging a pair of scissors through her boyfriend's eye. Stupid Miles. Promised her he wouldn't get bit, then goes right out and does it anyway. Sometimes she misses him, sometimes she misses pizza. Grief is a day-to-day thing.

-

Her small little town turned fast. Not just into zombies, but into raging assholes. But mostly zombies.

She has to clear her apartment building. Alone, she might add, bitterly at the thought of stupid, extra dead Miles. She kills the little old lady down the hall, the one that keeps a garden behind the building, with her own spade. The vicious woman nearly sank her teeth into Skye's arm. 

She continues to eradicate the infestation. Soon there's nothing left living in the complex except her. Not that it's any different from the state it was in the morning, but now there's a lot less snapping teeth and grabby hands.

As she shoves a steak knife into little Daisy from down the hall, she feels sick to her stomach. It has nothing to do with how the girl gives one last cry before crumpling to the ground, but more to do with how numb it had become, killing her friends and neighbors.

Dragging the small body into one of the apartments, Skye hopes the whole "out of sight, out of mind" thing will work.

It doesn't. Only a week passes before she can't take walking the halls anymore. Too familiar, too many bloodstains. That, and the food around her is starting to get scarce. She can either go to the far side of town in search of more, and risk getting caught by aforementioned raging asshole with no human decency, or she can leave.

It's not a hard decision, especially when Skye can carry everything she needs in a backpack and a messenger bag she had from work. Thank god her neighbor was weird enough to own a machete. She named it Wade. 

Really, the only hard part is leaving her laptop behind. 

-

Skye joins a group of survivors a few towns over. It's basically whoever survived and desperate for human contact. It works well for a few weeks. She actually makes friends with a few people, or what counts as friends in the apocalypse.

The group splits into small teams to go loot houses without the big group attracting too much attention, they camp in some big building or even a barn, stick in one town for several days before moving on. Rinse, repeat. Everyone seems friendly enough, fighting isn't tolerated and any disputes are settled by the leader. He's this older fellow who fought in the military, retained all the training, is fair and kind, and is just all around the perfect guy to look up to in the end of the world. 

Mike Peterson and his family are especially nice to her, and it seems like she could finally find a home again with the group.

That is, until the messiah dies and everything goes to shit.

The guy is buried in a pleasant clearing in a forest the group had cut through to get to the next town over. His son Gordon seems like a decent guy, with all his muscles and bright smile. He and his buddies are the one who bury the former leader, and then choose him as the next. No one disagrees.

Later, Skye thinks, that little lamb don't disagree either as their led to the slaughter.

The change is clear by the next week. Mr. Assface, as Skye likes to think of him in her head, demands everyone pulls their own weight now or they don't eat, with his cronies enforcing such a rule with a dickish eagerness. It's easy for Skye to do so, sure, but she's an able-bodied young adult on her own. There are families with kids, there are the elderly, sick people who don't do so well with such a rigorous quota.

It's like that for a few days, without complaint, until some guy Skye doesn't know tries to be the hero and stand up to Gordon. He earns a bullet between the eyes for his bravery. With that, things get worse.

Criticizing the way things are run? Get the shit beat out of you. Don't manage to live up to Gordon's expectations? Starve. Try to leave? Get shot.

Skye doesn't do too bad in that environment. She knows power-hungry assholes, knows how to hide disobedience, knows how to lie through her teeth. It doesn't hurt that she's attractive, even without a hot shower since everything began. She can stand being looked at like a piece of meat by the pack of douches if it means she can easily keep half her rations in her bag without raising suspicion. She's trust with keeping the night watch sometimes. She wonder if it's the dead or the living she's suppose to keep an eye on.  
-

Everything comes to a head when Mr. Assface decides that those that may slow the group down have to be gotten rid of. Namely, the sick and the elderly. On a wide street in the middle of downtown nowhere, he yells at a grandmotherly woman to start walking and get out of his fucking sight. 

Skye stands beside him and his cronies, close enough to reach out and touch the woman, feeling terrible but not brave enough to do anything but pity the woman. She looks so confused and scared.

"How many times am I going to have to say it?" 

The old woman just shakes her head, her pleas barely audible.

"Fine, if you don't want to listen -" Gordon pulls out his gun and shoots her in the head.

Blood splatters on Skye as she reels backwards, eye wide and wild. "Dude, what the fuck!?" She wipes the blood off her face with her sleeve, her hands shaking.

"Sorry, sweetheart, she was testing my patience. Next time I'll give you a warning, 'kay?" He smiles at her, like a genuine fucking smile, like he wasn't completely fucked up and this should be fucking normal to Skye.

She nods. "Yeah, okay." She swallows as she glances at the crumpled body of the woman.

"Let's head back to base and get you a new shirt." She allows him to gently place a hand on her shoulder and lead her away, as if he wasn't a complete monster and she wasn't just itching to kneel before the old woman and beg forgiveness. 

-

The next execution happens to be Mrs. Peterson, who caught the flu a few days ago. Mike had covered for her, carrying her things and doing her work when none of Gordon's asshole patrol were watching. But now, in the middle of the night, one of Gordon's buddies drags her out of the office building everyone was camping in into the street.

Skye doesn't think the woman knows what's really going on. She looks so out of it, a fever raging inside her body, leaving her unaware of what's to come. Skye feels like she's going to throw up. She can't just do nothing, but acting would be suicide, getting both killed.

People crowd around the woman who's kneeling in the middle of the street, looking around confusedly. 

Gordon and his crew, including Skye, stand opposite the building. Those who are brave enough come out, and those who aren't peek through the window's on the second floor. Gordon stands a ways to her left, and she can see him nods at one of his men. The guy nods and steps forward, drawing his gun.

Skye tightens her grip on the metal baseball bat in her sweaty hand. She wishes she could help, wishes she could just rush forward and stop the guy, do something, anything, but she can't. If she tries, they'll both die.

The executioner stops and clicks the safety off his gun.

Mike Peterson barrels through the crowd, shouting, not begging or pleading but letting out a war cry. He knocks people down and runs at the guy with the gun. The guy, clearly distressed, tries to aim at the target rushing at him but misses terribly, the shot ringing out and echoing among the buildings as the two crash the ground. Mike gets in a good solid punch before anyone moves. The other man's out like a light.

The only other guy with a gun and a god complex, Gordon steps into the circle.

Mike grabs his wife and kneels in front of her, shielding her with his body.

Gordon draws his gun.

Skye draws in a breath.

A cry. The crowd parts for the Peterson boy like the Red Sea.

A click. Safety's off.

A sickening crack. Gordon's skull caves in around Skye's bat and he crumples to the ground, one hand weakly reaching up to stop her but it comes down again and blood splatters on her pants and Gordon is dead.

People are yelling around her, screaming, so many people are screaming but Skye can only look at the red sprayed across the man's face and the blood pooling around her shoes as she stands directly over him.

Someone pulls her back roughly and she drops the bat and the asphalt scrapes her hands and her cheek. Someone kicks her back hard and then they're gone and then Mike Peterson is there and telling her to run and there are so many people running around her and that's when she hears the moaning and the growling.

Mike Peterson has his wife in his arms and his boy on his heel as they run away down Main, turning down Alpine, faster than the mass hysteria they run from.

Skye complies with the last word she ever hears from Mike Peterson, running fast and far, dodging the hands that reach and the bodies they leave behind. She runs until she's out of breath but hey when hasn't she been since the world ended, and keeps going. Her bag beats steadily against her back while her heart leaps and soars and whispers and stops all together a few times, Skye's pretty sure.

It's after the sun rises that she stops moving, though she has slowed to a shuffle, probably not unlike the rotters. She has barely enough energy to climb the ladder to a loft in a barn, her hands so cold despite the fire in her chest. They slip when she's maybe ten feet up, just below the top and she almost falls. She doesn't though.

Skye takes a shaky breath and pulls herself up the rest of the way. She's dead on her feet and barely takes the time to tug her blanket out of one of her bags and spread it out over the cracked wood floor. Curling into a ball, she falls into a restless sleep, wishing that she wasn't alone.

For the first time in a while, her heart aches for that poor, stupid, darling boyfriend she had in her old life.


	2. Chaos Theory Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Jemma shouldn't have gone to university in the states, she thinks. But, then she would have never met the boy she'll do anything to get back to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and left kudos for the first chapter. Y'all are great, and I would thank you all personally, but I'm rather shy. Instead, I'll just post the next chapter. Or rather, what is the first part of the next chapter. It's already way past my self-inflicted deadline and the chapter is turning out longer than I thought it would, so, for the sake of even chapters, here is part one of Chaos Theory.

So, maybe university in the States wasn't the best thing to do, Jemma thinks, as she hears screaming coming from one of the dorm rooms down the hall. It stops a minute later, of course, but the moans and the growling don't. 

She sits still on her bed, willing them to go away. As long as she keeps quiet, they won't try to get in. The wardrobe she and her roommate shared was sturdily built, sure, but not made for a barricade.

Speaking of roommates... Jemma sends another glance at the girl's things, wondering where she could be but figuring she already knew the answer. It had been a day. One day since Jemma saw the first news report (well, first for her as finals had been horrendous and she was sure the news had been circulating when she was disconnected from everything but her textbook) and this was the result. Sometime in the night, one of those monsters had gotten in and now the place was in shambles. 

She slowly gets up, careful not to let the bed frame creak as she shifts her weight, and tiptoes to the window. From her room on the second floor, she has a decent vantage point to look across the campus. The dorm building besides hers is in ruins, nearly all the windows on the first floor broken and a few on the second and third as well. The door that she can see have also had their glass knocked out, and there a big pool of dried blood around the nearest one. Her building is at such an angle that she can see the other building to the left.

There's a big, grassy open space with a few trees between her dorm and one of the school buildings, part of the science department. As Jemma's gaze flickers over the desolate building, she can't help but feel a pang of resentment. One more term and she would have been well on her way to becoming a biochemist. She sighs, letting the curtain fall back to it's original place, blocking out what little lighting came from the bleak gray sky.

The screams have stopped, thank goodness, and she feels a bit guilty to think that because someone probably just lost their life, someone Jemma probably knew. 

Her sigh is followed by chanting.

"Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill Nye the Science Guy!" Her phone rings loudly - too loudly. She dives for it, almost dropping it at she frantically turns down the volume, something she surprisingly forgot to do as soon as she realized those things were attracted to noise. 

For a moment, all she can hear is a drumbeat in her ears and she wonders if it's possible for the heart to break ribs, but no. The cracking noise is just the door of the room next to hers. 

Moaning. It's a noise she's slowly becoming accustomed to, as with zombies it's either that or growling.

Soft whimpering. Distant praying. Screaming. Also sounds she's heard for hours on end the past day. It feels so long.

Jemma wonders if her stupidity counts as murdering someone. Does the relief that it wasn't her count as an admission? Something aches behind her eyes as she slides down the wall next to the window. The tears feel too hot to be hers as they pool and leave tracks down her cheeks. Jemma feels so cold. She stays in a half-focused state, wavering between mourning everything she had the day before and sweet numbness.

It takes an hour before she checks her phone.

Simmons. Are you okay? Her chest hurts, and the tears come back, and even though she shakes her head and her shoulders bounce up and down with an effort to keep quiet, this time she's laughing. Maybe it’ll be okay, Jemma thinks, looking at the contact picture above the text, looking at the curls and the blue eyes and the mock-anger he gave her at having his picture taken. 

Thank gods for small miracles. Thank gods for letting her charge her cell phone this morning. Thank gods for Leopold Fitz.

\---

"Jemma," he breathes into the phone, careful to be quiet, but she can hear so many emotions in his voice.

"Fitz," she chokes out, feeling another lump in her throat. It just feels so good to hear his voice, and it feels good knowing he feels the same hearing hers.

"Where are you? Are you okay? Are you in your room - did you lock the door? - not that locking would do to much good with those zombies walking about -"

"Fitz," she repeats, only have listening to his words, instead listening to his voice. The pitch, the accent, the way the words roll of his tongue and how he stutters a bit as he talks too fast. Even though its a bit lower than normal, crackling through the static provided by the shit reception she has in her room, it flows into her like music.

"Yes?" he asks, sounding concerned.

"I'm okay. I'm in my room. I pushed the wardrobe in front of it," she answers, gesturing at the thing as if he could see.

"Ah, yes, that's good. It should hold. Wait, are you sure we should be calling each other? Will the noise attract any of them to you?" Jemma realizes she should probably be worried about that, but she's certain the zombie from earlier moved on.

"No, no. I'm good. Well, no, no I'm not."

"Jem-"

"Fitz, Fitz. I - I need you."

"To what? What do you need?"

"You. To be here. Next to me. Sorting all this out with me." There's silence, Jemma's heart beating hard again like it did earlier. He doesn't answer for a few more seconds, but when he does she can breathe again.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. But -" (She knew there'd be a but, she's a rational person, but it hurts nonetheless.) "- it's not safe out. Especially with the sun going down."

Sun? Going down? Jemma straightens her back out and cranes her neck, ignoring the sharp protest her body gives he as she nudges the curtains and finds that, yes, it quite a bit darker than when she last checked. "Oh." 

Fitz must pick up on how dejected she sounds. He sounds so scared when he talks. "But we can try to meet up tomorrow." She pictures Fitz, alone and afraid and hopeful. It makes her square her jaw and stand, joints popping at the sudden change in position as she looks around the room.

"Yes. We should decide when tomorrow when we can see the conditions. And we should take any supplies and find somewhere safer on campus. Maybe in one of the labs or faculty rooms." Her voice isn't desperate like it was before, and neither is she.

"Yeah, that's good. We, um, should talk more tomorrow I guess. Charge your phone, we don't know how long the electricity will last. And, um, I guess we should go to sleep soon? Make sure that we have enough energy tomorrow?" He notices the shift in Jemma's voice, and he tries to match it. He doesn't fail completely, but he's more hesitant, uncertain. 

"Yeah. I guess we should. I'll, um, talk to you tomorrow then? Oh!" Jemma blinks as she realizes she forgot to ask about his situation. "Where are you? Are you safe?"

"Y-yes, I, um, did about the same thing you did. In my room, all the way across campus."

"Guess we'll have a long day tomorrow, huh?" Jemma says lightly, picking at a loose thread on her shirt.

"Yeah, but hey. At least we'll have each other." There's a smile in his voice. She can see it perfectly. It sounds like they're talking about a particularly tedious lab instead of traversing across a campus without any idea of how many of their classmates were killed, of how many monsters lurked around the corner.

She sighs, and they stay like that for a few minutes, just listening to the white noise and the quiet breathing of the other.

"Well, goodnight Fitz," she says finally, regretting it as soon as it's out of her mouth.

"Um. G'night, I guess, Simmons. Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?" 

"Yeah." Jemma feels like she should add something else, tack it on the end of that sentence. What? She already said goodnight. Good luck? That sounds rather pessimistic. Sleep well? No. It isn't goodbye, either. What is it? "Talk to you tomorrow," she adds lamely. He hangs up, but she still holds the phone to her ear, frustrated beyond belief as the words she wanted slipped out of her mind. Sighing for what feels like the thousandth time that day, she lowers herself into her bed. 

She doesn't get the good night's sleep she needed, staring up at the blank ceiling, looking for the answers to the universe and her heart. All she gets in return is growling below her window for some indeterminable amount of time that feels like ages.

\---

The sun shines in bright through a crack between her curtains, and Jemma almost thinks the previous day was a dream. She sees she has a new text from Fitz, asking her if she's up yet and talking about the conditions outside. Then he mentions not having slept well because there was a lot moaning and screaming down the hall.

Jemma desperately hopes he meant his dorm mates were having sex until she sees her own wardrobe shoved up against the door.

"Damn."

She gets up, gets dressed in her favorite skinny jeans, tank top and plaid shirt, and finally a cardigan. She stuffs two of her favorite sweaters in her backpack, along with another plaid shirt and underwear. Her room seems pretty bare of any real supplies, the only food being a box of pop tarts her roommate had stashed away. She eats two for breakfast, since she was too upset to eat yesterday, before putting the other six in her bag. Extra extra socks are a must, a belt of hers, and bandages and antibacterial ointment she finds in her bathroom follow. She tosses in two new toothbrushes and toothpaste for good measure.

The rest of her things are mainly textbooks and or trinkets. She shoves a fancy pen into her bag too, because it looks too empty. She racks her brain, trying to think of what else is useful in an emergency, but nothing else she owns seems to fit into that category. 

Sighing, Jemma zips up her bag and puts it on. She quickly sends Fitz a text, before bending down and looking under her bed. Immediately, she finds what she wanted. Their dorm was the farthest point of campus, closest to the neighborhoods surrounding the university. Jemma and her roommate decided that they might need a precaution just in case a drunk managed to stumble in in the middle of the night, and thus, the most dangerous thing in Jemma’s possession: a metal baseball bat.

It was really her roommate’s idea, but as Jemma pulls it out and tests its weight in her hands, it just feels right. Fitz texts her, and after a bit of back and forth they decide to meet in the center of campus, texting each other along the way with updates and landmarks.

The wardrobe takes a bit of effort to move quietly. By the time she can open the door, her heart is beating fast and her hands are sweaty, but that could just be the nerves.

Hand hovering over the doorknob - it is the nerves, after all - Jemma takes a deep breath, telling herself that it would be best to remain calm.

She swallows hard, pulling her hand away from the door to wipe it on her jeans. The door seems to mock her with its unassuming appearance. Who knows what lie beyond that door?

Jemma stands up straighter, steeling her resolve. She knows that opening this door means that there is no going back, no more hiding. It’s time to fight for what she cares about, she decides. She knows what lies behind the door, and what it all means.

_Fitz, I’m coming for you._

Jemma opens the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, see you soon (hopefully) with Jemma and Fitz in Part 2!
> 
> Also, note that this is the very beginning of the whole apocalypse shebang in Jemma and Fitz's story, which takes place around the same time as the first two sections of Skye's narrative.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first story on this site. Hopefully you enjoyed and read until the end and I'm not just shouting into the void. Any constructive criticism would be great, as I'd love to make this better and continue with this story. Thanks.


End file.
